


Starstruck

by phrynne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Kissing, Clubbing, Dancing, Draco Malfoy has pink hair, Drinking, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Harry has a thing for his hair, Light Angst, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, POV Harry Potter, Pansy has a thing for books, Piercings, Pining, Slow Dancing, Tattoos, and just about anything else about him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-04 19:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13371282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrynne/pseuds/phrynne
Summary: Yeah, Malfoy has pink hair. Or sort of. Half of his hair is shaved short and dyed an aggressive pink. The other half is still white-blond, a strand falling over his right eye, only the left side of his face visible at all times. He turns it slightly and spots me beyond the moving bodies. He doesn’t stop dancing, a smile plays on his lips. This time I don’t look away like I used to when all this began.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Faylinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faylinn/gifts).



> I wrote this for my dear friend Faylinn <3 Today is her birthday and since she lives far away from me I decided to gift her a little bit of drarry from my heart (instead of writing my fiction asignments for class, 'cause yeah, I've been avoiding those ^^'). 
> 
> Have a wonderful day my favourite Hufflepuff. Thank you for being an amazing, super sweet person. 
> 
> I hope you like this :)
> 
> Thanks to my beta Isleen_!

Let me tell you about Draco Malfoy. He’s nothing like the boy I knew.

Take for instance now: he’s at a Muggle club, dancing. I’m staring at him, across the room, leaning against the counter, another drink in my hand, the alcohol burning down my throat. Lights flash over us. Green, white, blue, yellow, purple, pink. Pink. Like his hair.

Yeah, Malfoy has pink hair. Or sort of. Half of his hair is shaved short and dyed an aggressive pink. The other half is still white-blond, a strand falling over his right eye, only the left side of his face visible at all times. He turns it slightly and spots me beyond the moving bodies. He doesn’t stop dancing, a smile plays on his lips. This time I don’t look away like I used to when all this began.

The song changes. Upbeat and indecent. Like the way he moves. He doesn’t care one bit what anyone thinks. His white shirt clings to his chest, collar open carelessly, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My eyes search and find what they’re looking for: his tattoos, flowers along his inner left forearm, part of a dragon curling on his right. The intricate drawings stand out, black on his skin, stalks and scaly tail alike curling over the bones on his sleek wrists. Both disappear under his sleeves and again I want to know what else’s under there. More flowers; the rest of the dragon, I think. Probably climbing up his arm, its wing unfurling on his back? I keep imagining it differently every time. Maybe his whole back is covered by the wing, thin membranes going down his spine. I see it arching back, moving, under my hands. The thought doesn’t even scare me anymore. Now it just is.

He raises his hand and brushes his hair back, but the blond strand falls into place again. The ring on his finger catches the rainbow lights from above. His fingernails are painted black. It suits him. He slants me another look. Night after night, this is what we do.

Parkinson is also there. They always start the night dancing together. She also looks different. Her hair is shorter, curling around her ear, and her laugh is easy. There’s a lot of sex in their dance. At first I thought they were together, but I was wrong. Parkinson leaves with a different woman every night. Tonight it’s probably that cute black girl now wrapped around her, a hand over Parkinson’s arse. As for Malfoy… he never leaves with anyone, but flirts with just about everyone.  Everything about him screams fuck you and fuck me at the same time. One is familiar; the other vast unknown territory; together, they keep me coming back for more. But I never make a move on him. I’m the only one that doesn’t.

I watch as a dark-haired bloke tries his luck. Malfoy ruts against him, lets the man run his hands down his chest, over his stomach, then he lets that hand cup him through his tight black jeans. I can’t yank my eyes away, as he rolls his hips up, slowly. I can’t tell if he’s hard, but I like to think he is, his cock filling up under that hand. My chest constricts. Malfoy lifts his eyes and looks me up and down. He runs his tongue over his piercing. A metal ring in the right corner of his lower lip. That’s new. He didn’t have it yesterday. I never kissed anyone with a piercing.

In fact, I haven’t kissed anyone since the War ended three months ago. Me and Ginny, we’re over. I don’t think we ever began, really. Everything is fucked up. Reconstruction is underway at Hogwarts, but I never went back, instead I’m here. I drink. I watch Malfoy dance. I drink some more. I watch him kiss a man. Then I watch him ditching the same man. I drink. This is what I’ve been doing with my newfound life with no Dark Lords on the horizon. Drinking my way to… not even Malfoy, really, ‘cause I haven’t said a word to him since the trials. I can’t explain it to Ron or Hermione, since I can’t even explain it to myself. Watching him is the only thing I look forward nowadays.

It’s the way he moves. I want to know what he thinks as he turns down another bloke with a smile and stalks away. I want to know how he feels like now, as he closes his eyes on the dance floor. He looks blissed out, there’s a softness to him that only shows up when he dances alone. His body is loose, moving to the beat, his hip bones jutting out. Free and careless, like he’s cut off from the past. Like he’s taken it and turned it on its head, made his life anew. I want that with a vengeance.  

I usually leave when I’m one sip away from joining those blokes and try my luck with him. I draw my line there. Just because I have to draw it somewhere. I set the glass down. He watches me leave.

The cold helps me pretend I don’t want anything from him. I sit on the edge of the pavement and take out a cigarette. No one is watching me, so I light it wandlessly.

‘There are better ways to go, you know?’

His voice works like an ignition, starting a chain of improbable events.

The cigarette drops from my hand. The tip shines brightly on the floor.

I look up.

One grey eye, half a smile. He’s never followed me before.

He sits down beside me. I almost jump from the closeness of it. He smells like flowers and dance.

He leans over, his elbows on his knees. I get lost watching his tattoos. There it is, under the flowers. The white-stark scars of his Dark Mark. Instead of finding it repulsive, I find it brave. The way he wears it. Like it doesn’t define him anymore. I wish mine didn’t. I glance at him. He tilts his head, the strand of hair moves with it.

‘Hi,’ he says.

After almost three months of staring at him, it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time. Maybe because now I can’t ignore that he’s seeing me too.

‘Hey,’ I say, my throat closing down on me.

He’s wearing black eyeliner and it makes the grey in his eyes even more grey. They drift from my eyes, to my mouth, then slowly back up.

‘You never dance,’ he says with an ease we never had with each other. His voice sounds different too. Rough and sweet. There’s no snark in it. ‘You never pull anyone and turn down everyone that tries to chat you up. You always leave alone.’

‘So do you,’ I say, not thinking.

‘Someone’s been paying attention.’

‘Habit.’

He laughs. It’s a bright, tight thing, like a tiny burst, soft and vivid and I want to drink it down. My trainer plays distractly with the tip of the cigarette.

‘I thought… either you’re here to get drunk alone, or you’re waiting for something,’ he says.

He’s so close I can see the veins under his tattoos, green, blue, something in between. I feel him watching me closely.

‘The first one is too sad and way too simple. Doesn’t fit,’ his right hand flexes, he lifts it up and I follow the movement with my eyes. He lets it fall on a knee. The way he does it is so natural I take some time to notice it’s my knee.

It’s the first time in months I let anyone touch me.

I look at him. He still has that smile.

‘The second seems out of character,’ he goes on. His fingers rub circles over my knee. ‘You’re not really the type to wait.’

He’s right, I wasn’t. I don’t know who I am anymore.

‘The War changed everything,’ he says.

‘I don’t wanna talk about it,’ I mutter, watching his hand on my knee, the bones on his fingers, the slow movement of them over my jeans.

‘No. But you want me.’

The hand climbs up an inch; it’s on my leg. It’s warm and assured and still careful, like it doesn’t want to take too much too fast.

‘Yes,’ I say. 'Like they all do,' I add, unable to stop myself. My hand acts on its own. It drives his hand all the way up to my thigh. I’m breathless. I look up, his lips are parted, his cheeks tinged in faint red. His hand flexes over my thigh, experimentally.

His mouth huffs the words over mine, his hand curling on my thigh.

‘Why do you think I keep turning them down?’

I bite back a groan.

‘You’re also waiting for something,’ I say, unbelieving.

‘Yes,’ the word hits my face, shakes the real world full force. There’s pain in my chest, as my heart expands to contain it.

‘Draco, here you are…’ Parkinson’s voice yanks me back to the street, the cold, the low muffled beat of the music coming from the club. She spots me. ‘Well, hello Potter.’

Malfoy laughs softly at her tone, his hand on my thigh not moving one bit. Parkinson smiles at us in a way that tells me that one, she knows we were about to kiss; two, she’s not in the least surprised.

‘Hey Parkinson,’ I say, my voice dry.

‘And here I thought I had seen it all this night,’ she says, her eyes going from his hand to me and back again.

Malfoy gives her a wide smile. It lights up the night.

‘There’s this girl,’ Parkinson says. Her eyes are bright on us.

‘Of course there is,’ Malfoy says. I’m only aware of his hand there, so intimate, like we’re boyfriends. Like we’re _normal_. ‘Go enjoy your night.’

‘You sure?’ she asks, and her eyes drift to me.

‘I'm with Potter. Really, I'm fine.’

She laughs, loud and clear, and _happy_. Malfoy looks at me, even his eyes smile. Then he turns to her.

‘She’s waiting, Pans,’ he says, as his hand climbs a tiny inch up.

‘She loves books,’ Parkinson says amusedly. I’m about to combust. ‘She invited me over to check her library.’

‘That's an original one,’ Malfoy says, laugh in his voice. ‘Come over and check my... books.’

They both laugh. I laugh too, my chest collapsing with the force of it. My hand falls over his. It stays there. Our fingers twine together. Parkinson smiles.

‘I'm off. Firecall me tomorrow? See you, Potter.’

I don’t notice her leaving. Draco is so close to me all I see is the way his mouth speaks the next word.

‘So.’

He waits. His hand waits under mine. My heart blows up on my chest.

‘So,’ I repeat.

I don’t know how to go back to what we were about to do. But he does. His hand catches mine and he pulls me up, his arm wrapping around my waist. He moves against me. We’re in the middle of the street, but no one really cares.

‘Dance with me,’ he says, his words gentle, like his mouth is going to be over my cock later tonight. It’s like I’ve known this Draco all my life. But I’m still unsure.

‘Here?’

He doesn’t answer, just turns me around, slants me against him, my back to his chest.

‘Feel it,’ he whispers. I close my eyes, let myself fall back into him, into silence, into me. I’m aware of the faint beat of the music, of people laughing, coming and going, of my trainers on the pavement, of his hands barely moving on my sides.

‘I feel...’ I say.

‘Go with it.’

With my eyes closed and his body against mine, I finally let go.

It starts slowly, a soft swaying, it climbs up my legs, my chest, it catches me aware of everything. Of the cold night air, of his moving body behind me, warm, of his intoxicating scent, of his breath huffing on my neck. Time falls away. There’s only dance, slow beat, Draco moving with me, not pushing, not wanting more than I’m ready to give. I take his hands and pull them around me, over the front of my jeans. That’s when I dare to open my eyes and watch his arms around me like they belong there, his tattoos stark, his fingers cupping me.

‘We look good together,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ his voice catches for the first time. We both stop the slow dance.

I dare to turn around and face him. He’s slightly taller than me. That means I have to lift my hand up to his neck. I trace it lightly, then my fingers brush his shaved hair.

‘I like it. The hair, the tattoos, the eyeliner. Everything,’ I say.

I pull him down so that his lips are right there, finally. I nip slowly at his piercing. Draco gasps. Then we’re kissing. It feels inevitable, just waiting to happen. His mouth simply falls open for my tongue, and then we’re slow and purposeful. I’m struck by insanity or maybe this is the first moment of sanity in months. This is what I want. It doesn’t have to make sense.

I moan. My hands fall down to his hips.

‘Wanna come over to mine?’

We both laugh because we said it at the same time. None of us really answer with words. We’re not in a rush, we already know this night will be different. We’re kissing again, the beat rushing through us. I throw my head back, my eyes looking up and notice the stars, striking dots of brightness in the dark night.

I’m glad they’re still there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wasn't planning on this, but Draco's POV sort of happened. Hope you like it!

No one knows this but the night only starts when I see him.

I catch his eyes on me from across the room, his face struck in green, white, blue, yellow, purple, pink. I move to the beat, against the pain, the past, the whole wide world. It keeps the war at bay, but I don’t do it to forget. I remember everything I did.

It’s why I dance.

Pans always comes with me. For her it’s not about the dance. Her coping mechanism is shagging. A different woman every night. Tonight it’s probably the cute girl with curly hair dancing so close to her there’s barely a hair’s breadth of space between them. Pans looks happy; she too changed a lot in a few months.

I turn back to look at Potter. Our eyes meet. Lights flash, rainbows between us. I’ve known him all my life and it’s like I can’t stop noticing the little changes in him. He’s thinner; it shows on his face, under his recently grown beard. The beard fits him, goes well with his careless, worn-out hero look. He still carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. It’s in the way he leans against the counter, slumped, lost; it’s also in the fact that he’s on his seventh drink. I counted them. I also count how many times he avoids anyone wanting to chat him up. So far, three blokes, one girl. He’s not into people. Not into _life_ , more like.

He drinks, he watches me and I watch him back.

I love this Muggle pop song, _starstruck._ I feel loose, lost to the music, green eyes on every fucking inch of my body. I catch him looking at my tattoos and lift my arms to brush my hair back. He follows the movement. My heart beats to the rhythm, an invisible line drawn between me and him, the world beating loud around us.

He doesn’t know this, but he set me free in more ways than one. After he saved me from Azkaban, I went and shaved half of my hair. Tattooed my arms the following week. I loved every second of the pain inflicted by those needles. Muggle style. Then the pink sort of happened, which in itself is saying something. Mother hates it, of course. Everything in my life used to be planned. Controlled. Now my only purpose is dancing. I do it for me, but also for him.

My days are spent at Hogwarts, helping with the reconstruction. I keep waiting for him to show up there. But he never does. He comes here every night and watches me. I have this feeling I’m the only reason he’s even here. It’s certainly part of what keeps me dancing and turning down all these blokes who can’t keep their hands off of me. Speaking of… There’s this bloke running his hands over my chest, his half-hard cock pressing against my arse. Potter watches us and I notice how his shoulders tense, his back straightens, his hand tightens around the glass. His eyes eat me alive. I don’t look away as I take the stranger’s hands, placing them over the bulge in my jeans. I’m not hard yet, but with Potter looking at me like that, I will be.

But that’s when he breaks eye contact, sets his glass on the counter. I recognize the finality of the gesture from watching it time and time again. He leaves right before that last drink that might tip his scale. Like he’s afraid of what he might do.

I watch him leaving, the black sweater hugging his slumping shoulders, hands disappearing into the pockets of his well-worn jeans. I lose interest in whatever the bloke is doing and yank his hands away.

All the unsaid questions burn in my chest. I throw them all at his retreating back: why did you save me from the fire, why did you speak for me at the trials, why don’t you show up at Hogwarts, why do you keep coming here, what do you want from me, why don’t you do something about this, about us, because c’mmon there’s an us in here somewhere, in the way you watch me, why don’t you fucking make a move on me, can’t you see that I don’t want them, where’s that Gryffindor recklessness, that thing that made you so alive, what do you wank about when you finally go home, is it me, do you get hard when you watch me, do you get any sleep at all, because I only do if I dance and you never do, why do you look so fucking sad, why does that hurt me?

He’s gone. I stop moving, the music loud on my ears, my heart frantic. Pans catches my eye. She calls him my _own personal saviour_ . I pretend to find it stupid, but that’s exactly who he is in my mind. I no longer need saving. But when I did need it, he was _it_. Now he’s the one in need of some saving. I go out after him.

I spot him sitting on the sidewalk. Lonely. He lifts a cigarette to his lips, his hand unsure. He lights the tip silently. I heard those Muggle things kill people. And here I thought he was tired of dying.

‘There are better ways to go, you know?’ I say, like I’m ready to show him one or two myself.

The cigarette drops to the floor. He looks up at me. I forget every fucking thing I meant to say. His eyes drift to my lips. I wonder if he likes my new piercing.

I drop down beside him, too close. I might as well be sitting on his lap since I’m being so obvious, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He looks at my Dark Mark, the white scarring visible under the tattoos. I feel like he’s the only one who has the right to look at it so intently, so I let him. I imagine his fingers trailing over my inner arm, gentle, then his hands gripping my wrists, pressing them against the mattress. The picture is so strong I have to force myself to speak to make it go away.

‘Hi,’ I say.

I’m nervous, but I’m smiling. Now I do it all the time.

‘Hey,’ his voice breaks off, like he hasn’t used it in a while.

Up this close I notice that his eyes are still the same.

‘You never dance,’ I say, easing the words out. ‘You never pull anyone and turn down everyone that tries to chat you up. You always leave alone.’

‘So do you,’ he says in a heartbeat.

‘Someone’s been paying attention.’

‘Habit’ he says.

I can’t stop the tiny laugh that bursts out of me.

There’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

‘I thought… either you’re here to get drunk alone, or you’re waiting for something,’ I lift my arm up, unthinking.

‘The first one is too sad and way too simple. Doesn’t fit,’ my hand falls on his knee.

I expect him to jump back, to ask me what the hell I’m doing. But he’s quiet, staring at my hand as I trace circles with my fingers over his jeans.

‘The second seems out of character. You’re not really the type to wait.’

You’re the type that never gives up. That’s what I don’t tell him.

‘The War changed everything,’ I realise I said the wrong thing as soon as the words leave my mouth. He tenses.

‘I don’t wanna talk about it,’ but he still doesn’t pull away.

‘No,’ I say. My breath quickens. ‘But you want me.’

There’s a second of silence where I let myself panic. But I didn’t dye my hair pink for nothing. It’s a bold statement. Like what I just said. My hand climbs an inch up his leg.

‘Yes. Like they all do,’ he says in a rough voice.

I barely have time to take in his admission. His hand covers mine and drags it up to his thigh. He looks up at me. Every doubt leaves my mind. We’re so close I could kiss him, but I want him to do it. He has to want it like I do.

‘Why do you think I keep turning them down?’ I ask.

He actually bites his lip, a flash of insane hope on his eyes.

‘You’re also waiting for something,’ he says.

‘Yes,’ my mouth forms the word. There’s this drumroll of need drawing us together. His lips are right there, chapped from the cold. He’s going to, he’s...

‘Draco, here you are…’

Gotta love Pansy. She has great timing. Like that time she suggested we delivered Potter to the Dark Lord. She thought the Dark Lord would stop at that. She didn’t know him like I did. She regrets it now. I wonder if Potter knows.

‘Well, hello Potter.’

‘Hey Parkinson,’ he says in a tight voice, his hand still on mine.

She eyes him amusedly, then turns her smile to me. She knows she’s interrupting. She also knows she’s right about me and him. A Pansy who is right is an impossible Pansy.

‘And here I thought I had seen it all this night,’ she says, her eyes drifting to our hands on his thigh. It’s so fucking intimate, so good, that I smile like an idiot and say nothing in return.

‘There’s this girl,’ she says, a dimple forming on her cheek.

‘Of course there is,’ I say. I have this vision of a life where Potter is my boyfriend and this, right here, our hands, his closeness, Pansy talking to us about her flings, is normal. ‘Go enjoy your night,’ I tell her, my mind reeling.

‘You sure?’ she asks.

‘I'm with Potter,’ I say. It sounds both weird and right. ‘Really, I'm fine.’

Actually, in that version of reality he should be Harry. _Harry_.

‘She’s waiting, Pans,’ I say, and move my hand slightly up.

I swear _Harry_ stops breathing.

‘She loves books,’ Pansy goes on. I hate her. ‘She invited me over to check her library.’

‘That's an original one,’ I say. ‘Come over and check my... books.’

She’s laughing, I’m laughing, and I hear him joining us. His laugh is a bright, gentle thing, deep, unexpected, my heart jumps to my throat. The War almost took all our laughs away. His fingers twine with mine, like it’s nothing at all.

‘I'm off. Firecall me tomorrow? See you, Potter.’

I nod,  but don’t notice her leaving.

‘So.’

I can’t think. There’s this scary depth in him, I want to dive in.

‘So,’ he says and in it I realise he’s consenting.

I grip his hand and pull him up, my arm around his waist. His whole body leans into mine, scared and willing all at the same time.

‘Dance with me,’ I say.

It means more to me than I want you or I think I’m falling for you. I think he gets it.

‘Here?’

Merlin, he looks so shy but there’s that defiance in there too, that says he’s going to do it. I whirl him around, my chest to his back, my hands setting on his arms to steady him. I close my eyes.

‘Feel it,’ I say.

I breathe him in and then open my eyes to watch him leaning back against me.

‘I feel…’ he breathes out. He shuts his eyes, he feels pliant and easy, and I sink into the rhythm seeping through me. It’s easy. Like dancing.

‘Go with it,’ I whisper. And he does.

We’re moving to the beat. I take in his scent, the way he feels, warm, real, swaying against me, the cold night air, the laughs and voices, the song, my heartbeat, his breathing. He takes my arms and puts them around him. My hands drop to the front of his jeans. He’s hard. His hands press mine over the swell of his cock, my fingers cupping him. It’s like I’m meant to do this all my life.

‘We look good together,’ he says.

And with that he takes all my breath away.

‘Yeah.’

I crave him with something akin to desperation.

He turns around and we’re so close I feel his breath on my lips. His hand curls around my neck, sweet, strong, his fingers trailing up to brush over my shaved hair.

‘I like it. The hair, the tattoos, the eyeliner. Everything.’

All my want breaks the dam at the raw honesty of him. He kisses my piercing first, pulls it between his lips and runs his tongue over it. I swear this is the sweetest, sexiest thing a bloke has ever done to me, and I’m pretty sure there’s more of it coming.

My mouth is open for him to take over. He fucking does. His hands so soft, his tongue inside my mouth, daring and slow, and fucking sweet Merlin, if this kiss is anything to go by he’s going to _shatter_ me when we get horizontal. His hands fall on my hips, no doubt in them about where this is going. I can’t fucking think straight.

‘Wanna come over to mine?’

Our words mingle together and I’m laughing with him and then we’re kissing again and I’m sure this night is going to end with me fucking him slowly, or the other way around, I really don’t care. We’re moving, the beat drifts over us, his eyes are bright on me, then he lifts them up to look at the stars. I look at him.

I’m glad he’s back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments always make my heart warm <3 Did you like pink-haired Draco? Share away your feelings/thoughts!


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